tell 'em this boy wasn't meant for lovin'
by safeandsound13
Summary: "You can't say I'm sorry for breaking and entering! What's next? Oh, I'm sorry I murdered him and stuffed the body in your closet?" She huffs, indignant, suddenly forgetting about how he could possibly kill her in 3 seconds. —or, 'All my intel said you're not meant to be back until next week and I'm sitting here using your flat as a sniper nest to kill a bad guy. This is awkward.'


**(a/n: i'm a bratva hoe for life yo**

 **ain't nothing you can do about it**

 **so a while back i came across a prompt on tumblr that i put on my prompt list with 'OLIVER AND FELICITY *shia labeouf voice* JUST DO IT' as a suggestion. so here we are. shia labeouf really spoke to me.**

 **infamous shia lebeouf prompt:**

 **All my intel said you're not meant to be back until next week and I'm sitting here using your flat as a sniper nest to kill a bad guy. This is awkward.' AU**

 **fic title: real life by the weeknd**

 **song fic: a million reasons by yaaasss gaga yaaaass)**

.

 _i've got a hundred million reasons to walk away_

 _but baby, i just need one good one to stay_

.

In all regards, like _all_ of them, Felicity was a Pretty Awkward Person™. Awkward in that saying something she shouldn't in the most inappropriate way possible, tripping over her own feet, and walking in on her mom having sex with her best friend's father (more than once! She needs her level of traumatization to be very clear!) kind of way.

But coming home from a work-trip to the Silicon Valley to walk into a random guy who looks like he could be working for the CW propping up one of those massive army guns you only ever see in the movies on her window sill before stumbling over her own door mat and probably flashing him her underwear on her way down to her good old pal The Floor—really, it takes the crown. It has to.

She knocked herself out, too, she realizes, when she wakes up on her couch with a pounding headache and a sudden crippling fear of dying. She thinks so anyway, because she is pretty certain she didn't magically fall down on her couch which was a good fifteen feet away from the front door of her apartment.

Still, the crippling fear of her impending death kind of beats out logistics for now, by like, at least two points. At once, she sits up, panicking, which doesn't do her head much good, a bright white burning light appearing in front of her eyes.

She has to lean back against her couch, one of her fluffy pink pillow stabbing in her lower back as she manages to swing her legs off of it. She keeps her eyes closed for a few blissful seconds in which she can convince herself magic is real and she dreamed up the armed stranger in her livingroom, before a voice abruptly shatters all her hopes and dreams.

"Careful, you could have a concussion."

She peaks through one eye, hoping her friend Cisco from work was just pulling a _very_ elaborate prank and the hot actor he hired was about to apologize for causing actual bodily harm. To no such luck, she doesn't spot him anywhere and the guy is crouching down in front of her, still looking very— _armed_. He's pretty in that annoyingly charming way with blue eyes and one of those beards that's mostly stubble. There's a gun stashed in his belt and a knife strapped to his upper leg, which is considerably less pretty and charming.

Also, he's shirtless. Scarred and tattooed and seriously ripped and super shirtless. Why in God's name is he shirtless?

"I'm sorry, but according to my intel you weren't supposed to be back for another week." He doesn't _look_ very sorry, a guarded distancing glance in his eyes.

"You can't say I'm sorry for breaking and entering! What's next? Oh, I'm sorry I murdered him and stuffed the body in your closet?" She huffs, indignant, suddenly forgetting about how he could possibly kill her in three seconds. "Like, seriously? That's so messed up, and frankly, victim-blaming. I came home early because I already closed the deal because I'm _that_ good at my job. I didn't ask for you to—to come here, and to do _God knows_ what? Like it's an inconvenience for you that I came home early to my own frickin' apartm—"

"Do you always talk this much?" He interrupts her with one eyebrow raised, a tone that either conveys annoyance or amusement—both reactions that she is more than used to.

She finally manages to lift her head of the couch, sitting up a little, crossing her arms pointedly and tilting her head at him in aggravation. The latter of which wasn't her brightest idea, a stab of pain shooting up her neck, black spots swarming her vision. "Do you always break into other people's apartment with weapons that look like they belong in a Liam Neeson movie?"

He lifts the corner of his mouth, despite looking like it's something he hasn't done since birth. "I think you'd remember abducting my daughter, Felicity."

She winces, not as much at his terrible joke or the facT HE KNOWS HER NAME, but more because _everything hurts_. She presses a hand to her forehead, trying to focus her eyes on her vintage poster of an advertisement for the very first Apple Computer, but all she sees is a blur of colors.

She's feeling very tired, her head still pounding like someone hit her over the head with a supercomputer. It must show, because he puts his hand on her shoulder, firm and stiff, carefully applying enough pressure for her to get the message he wants her to lay down.

"You should go to sleep," he tells her quietly, explaining, "You hit your head on the coffee table pretty hard."

Ah HA, so she didn't fall on the couch. He must've dragged her on top of it or something. She thinks she's asking him something along those lines, but it sounds more like gibberish than anything else. The last thing she manages to think of is that it probably isn't the _best_ idea to go into her most vulnerable unconscious state when there's a stranger in her apartment that probably wants her dead, before the world fades to black anyway.

.

She wakes up in her bed this time, thankfully fully dressed and feeling a lot better. Also, alive. Which is always a pleasant observation to note. Her mouth feels dry and the side of her head still stings a little when she moves it, but _alive_. That's already twice more than she expected.

Carefully, she gets out of bed, tiptoeing to her cabinet and pulling out one of her old tablets. She hits her flat hand against it a few times when it won't start, cursing quietly under her breath. Technology has never failed her in her entire life. It shouldn't choose the moment she is a first time hostage to start.

"I disabled all your devices, if you're wondering why nothing is working," his voice is coming from the living room, which just makes it ten times creepier. How did he even know that—

He appears in her door-opening, leaning against it casually, arms crossed over his chest and she gets that he has great biceps, _stop_. "I know you work in one of our country's best applied sciences department and that you're very talented at what you do, like I know you're allergic to cats and your middle name is Meghan." At the stunned (and alarmed) look on her face, he elaborates, "I don't usually break into someone's apartment unprepared."

She huffs, dropping the tablet back into her Old Technology drawer with a hard crackling sound, careless and angry. She doesn't have to look down to know the screen is broken. Instead, she focuses her don't-try-to-frick-with-me gaze on him. A look her best friend Laurel, kick-ass lawyer who's been following self-defense classes since birth, helped her adopt.

"This is too crazy, even for me. I think I'll just get my bag and go over to my friend's place while you do," she motions her hands around, something she does a lot when she speaks, "whatever you're planning on doing here."

Somehow she thinks her don't-try-to-frick-with-me gaze isn't as intense as Laurel's, or he's seen worse. Probably both.

She makes a move to go past him, but he puts one hand across the door opening, blocking her path. He looks at her, almost blank, like he's operating like some sort of robot.

"I'm sorry but I can't let you leave." She gives him a look that must get across the message that she's not pleased at all, maybe even a little scared, and his eyes soften. "It could compromise the mission."

"What are you going to do?" She chuckles a bit insanely at the absurdity of it all. "Tie me up?"

Something about the way he looks at her, tells her he would, if necessary. The frack.

It isn't like she just lay there and took it like a docile idiot in distress. She gave him a whole speech about her rights as an American Jewish woman and tried to escape _at least_ three times.

All three times backfired; one time he ended up flushing her cellphone through the toilet telling her she'll get it 'reimbursed' once he's gone, another time she almost broke her ankle tripping over her doormat (again) and one time he actually prevented her falling down five floors by pulling her back of her balcony railing with pure strength (he only used one arm, which is like, so unfair). She admits trying to climb her way down while being afraid of heights and prone to fall flat on her butt in any and every situation wasn't her brightest idea.

She's computer smart, okay? She never paid attention in the How To Escape Your Own Apartment In Case A Lunatic Breaks In And Won't Let You Leave classes she apparently missed.

After some more sulking and another failed attempt at trying to contact the authorities or her friends or anyone really (he broke her last and final tablet), she finally comes out of her bedroom. If she can't leave her own apartment, it's going to be on her damn terms. Also, she's hungry.

She came home late last night, it's been an hour since her last escape/suicide attempt and the way the sun is streaming through her windows makes her suspect it's early morning to afternoon. He still looks the same, well-rested, although he's wearing a different sweater, a grey t-shirt peeking out at his collar. It's then she notices the suitcase near his empty weapon case. Was he planning on moving in?

He offers her a cup of coffee and she accepts it, warily, biting down a snarky remark about how she's glad he's feeling right at home. Instead, she says, "It would make me feel like at least one third better if you told me what exactly this mission is? The one you mentioned earlier I mean. Not like the mission to Mars or whatever. I know what that…" She trails off, pursing her lips in annoyance because of her own stupid ramblings. She can never get a grip. "Anyway. You know what I mean."

"It's classified," is all he gives her, face stoic and shoulder stiff, to which she _strongly_ opposes.

"Fine, fine," he retorts, final, eyes flickering over to where he stationed himself in front of her window. "There's a procedure—sometimes things go a little faster or slower—but we mostly work in the same order. I get a target and I get to work, no questions asked. In this case, the target will be at Town Hall a couple of days from now, which you happen to live right across from. I'm covering the South side exit of the building, my partner the North Side."

"So you're not alone?" She shoves her glasses further back up her nose with her free hand, wildly, coffee swooshing over the edge of her cup. Not working alone makes it less likely he's a lunatic, right? _Right?_ "Do you work for the government?"

He clenches his jaw so hard, she thinks it might snap. "Not directly."

She frowns, putting her cup down on the coffee table and wiping her hand on her skirt. She can worry about the stains later. "Then _who_ did give you your orders and why do you follow them blindly?"

He clears his throat, obviously not liking her abrasiveness. Well, buddy, you've got a thing coming. "It's classified."

"Well." She demands, frustrated, and she knows she's throwing a temper tantrum like a two year old, but who could blame her? "Who's this ' _target_ ' and who did he piss off?"

"I can't say."

She huffs, bitter, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear that must've escaped her ponytail while she slept. "You're quite the conversationalist. Must be fun at parties."

He doesn't look like he thinks it's funny, eyes blank and brows furrowed together.

She wets her bottom lip, mind racing, as she asks, "What's your name?"

"Felicity," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and something about the way he says her name sends a chill down her spine.

"Look," she tries desperate, softer this time, even though she's going insane on the inside, which might show on the outside, too, "you seem to know all these things about me, like my name, even though I haven't seen your face, ever, before in my life, like anywhere, before I stepped into my apartment yesterday. I'm not asking a lot, okay? At least, I don't think I am. I just—I just want to level the playing field, just a little."

She sees his adam's apple bob up and down, doubt clouding his face before he finally speaks. "Oliver."

Suddenly feeling stupid and a little numb from knowing she'll never have the upperhand, she responds, "How do I even know that's your real name?"

He puts his coffee down next to hers. His cup had a picture of Darth Vader on it, the line 'who's your daddy' below it, which felt like a funny birthday present from her co-worker and friend Curtis at the time, now it just makes her blush like crazy. "I guess you're just going to have to trust me."

She opens her mouth, but she finds it weird to convey her feelings into words all of a sudden, worried he'll think she's creepy, or weird, or, or weak or something. Even though, like, him obviously being the creepy one in their situation. "The funny thing is, I kind of do. Or I feel like I do. Trust you, I mean."

"I have one of those faces."

"Yeah, that, or it's a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome," she snorts, humorlessly. Apparently her mouth isn't done moving, she realizes about halfway through her embarrassing speech. "Which I know includes feeling like you're in love with your captor, but that's, that's not what I meant. I don't feel those type of feelings, about you, or anyone really."

He tilts his head, thoughtful, maybe a little endeared in some way. Or he's hitting that feeling of Secondhand Embarrassment pretty hard. She would be, if she was in his shoes.

She colors significantly, feeling a strong need to ram her head into the nearest wall. "Not that I've never been in love—I just—you're my first captor, is what I'm trying to say, popping my hostage cherry." The dread dawns in on her and she suddenly feels her heart pound loudly in her ears. "I should've phrased that differently, really. Now it just sounds like—"

"Felicity, breathe," he chuckles, low, one reassuring hand on her shoulder. She looks down at his hand, and he quickly retracts it, like he's been burned. "Sorry."

He must've mistaken the surprised look on her face for fear, she realizes. She bites down on her bottom lip, waits for her heartbeat to slow down considerably, before she manages to get out, " _Can I_? Trust you?"

"Yes." He answers, simple, without skipping a beat. And for the first time, she sees something real in him, touchable. Human and earnest. "I'm not here to hurt you. I have a job, that I'm going to do as quickly and discreetly as possible. Once I've done that, you'll never hear of or see me again. You have my word."

She feels a little pang of something at his words, but she doesn't consider it long enough to put a label on it.

"Okay. I'll just leave you… to it. I guess." She points her thumb over her shoulder, towards her kitchenette. "I'll be making myself something to eat."

He nods, walls back up, and that's that. She's playing a very dysfunctional game of house with a hitman.

.

At first, she just catches up on Orphan Black and munches on unhealthy snacks while he stares out the window and makes occasional notes in his black notebook, sporadically talking through a portable radio in a weird non-English language.

She keeps this up for a good day, until, the next morning—she's out of episodes and bored out of her mind. Generally, when you're an IT genius, you like being challenged. Don't get her wrong, she also enjoys lounging on her couch and pigging out, but it's not exactly stimulating if you do it for a longer period of time. Especially not when the thought that she's locked up is swarming her mind all the time.

Plus, she's a naturally nosy and curious person. Like, the running a background check on your new boyfriend without you even asking kind of nosy; missing my stop on the bus because two strangers were telling each other something super racy, _nosy_.

"Okay," she starts, offering him some of her popcorn, which he refuses by giving her a funny look. "What are we looking at?"

" _We_ are not looking at anything. _I'm_ working. You're supposed to be ignoring I exist," he tells her, firm, putting his binoculars down next to the massive sniper gun. Stationed in her livingroom.

"Humpf," she retorts, disappointed mouth full. She swallows, continuing, "You can't possibly be researching one building _this_ extensively."

He looks uncomfortable, shoulders straightened to a point where it can't be natural or feel good. "I'm just—double-checking everything. I like to be thorough."

She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. Suddenly it hits her. "Wait… Before I came home—you were already done—ready to get the job done if necessary, right? That's what you said. You already had your intel. So now… you're just, what? Pretending for my sake?"

"Technically, yes." He admits, tightly. "But it never hurts to double check. Especially since my intel is usually never wrong." And it was now, she adds in thought, as he nudges his head toward her, eyeing her almost like he's lightly impressed.

"What do you usually do? In the meantime?" Before he like, takes out his target? Murder. She's an accomplice to murder now, probably, right? She totally is.

Like it's set in stone, like it's second nature and he has to repeat it daily, "I set up, go through the plan step by step, make contact and then I just wait for my orders."

"And by 'wait for my orders' you mean?" She cocks an eyebrow, curiously.

He shrugs, lazily, looking out of the window as he speaks. "I don't know. I watch TV or I read. I work-out, or practice my aim." He finally makes eye-contact and his eyes are so pretty, and blue. "I pass the time."

"You can do whatever you usually do, okay?" She stammers, not even sure where she's going with this. "Like—as much as I wish I wasn't in this situation—I'd hate to be in a constantly awkward and even more uncomfortable situation because you're pretending to be interested in some rando leaf on the sidewalk and I'm pretending to watch TV even though I'm actively aware of the fact you're also pretending."

It's already weird enough, having him here, not knowing exactly why but knowing _for what_ , and maintaining some sense of normalcy would be nice. She could pretend this was the strangest Airbnb sleepover ever. You know, something that wouldn't make her sound like she was having a mental breakdown when she explained it to other people.

She bites down on her bottom lip, searching for the words. "And I'm not saying you should ignore me, but you don't have to be constantly conscious of my existence. If, if that makes sense."

It's how they end up on the couch, an unnatural amount of space in between them, watching Black Mirror. She keeps unconsciously pointing out the flaws in the futuristic technology devices until he makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, and it takes her a while to decipher he's trying to cover up a laugh.

She turns to look at him, a little offended, as she fixes her glasses. "I'm glad you think technological inaccuracy is a joke."

"You talk _a lot_ ," he notes, smiling the tiniest of bits, and it's a nice smile.

"Yeah, I was voted Most Likely To Have Her Own Talkshow in high school and everything," she counters, lamely, taking the last few pieces of popcorn. Her heart is drumming annoyingly fast in her chest for whatever reason. "By the way, we're almost out of food and since I'm on house-arrest, I was wondering how you wanted us both to a) starve to death or b) eat whoever dies of starvation first?"

Spoiler alert: it's going to be her.

He brushes it off. "It's just a few days. I've gone on without food for way longer periods of time."

She raises her eyebrows, opening her mouth but putting a hand up instead. "I'm not even going to ask." She huffs, self-deprecating. "Besides, I'm not a ripped, muscle-y fighting machine living on egg whites and kale. My body doesn't have a lot of reserves. If it has to resort to my muscles, I'll be a sack of bones within the next two hours."

He sends her a skeptic look, mixed with a little amusement. "I have a bag of pork rinds in my suitcase, if you want."

"Who even are you?" she asks, shaking her head, not even expecting an answer. Who the hell still eats pork rinds? She kind of expects him to eat raw fish and cow eyes now, too. "I'm Jewish, remember?" She nudges her head towards the files on her window sill, indicating his research on her. "Pork's so not kosher."

"Fine," he mutters, and he looks like a grumpy cat. "I'll get us some groceries."

" _How?_ " They can pretend this or that all they want, but the fact still is he can't leave her alone, or she will bail. And he doesn't seem stupid enough to try.

"It doesn't matter," he presses, tone indicating the conversation is over, pulling out one of those old flip-phones. Her heart almost dies at the sight of it, it's that old of a model. "I'll get them."

She must fall asleep at one point, because when she wakes up, his standing near her front door, speaking in hushed tones to someone else. Her eyes open quickly, because this it, her way out. She reaches up to wipe some drool from the side of her mouth, which is—so not cute. No that it matters.

Finally, she's able to make out a little of what Oliver's saying while she pretends still be sleeping until she can come up with a game plan. (After almost dying during her last attempt, she feels like she should think stuff through more, you know, keeping yourself alive was always a perk.) "...supposed to do? Kill an innocent woman?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," a man answers, and Felicity can only make out vague features. It's now she realizes her glasses are laying on the coffee table in front of her, which, he must've taken off for her, which is almost considerate. His skin's dark, and he's taller and broader than Oliver, something silvery and shiny hanging around his neck.

It doesn't take her long to realize the other man isn't her way out, he's Oliver's… something. Friend or partner or employee or hell, maybe they're boyfriends. He can't help her.

They exchange some sort of look, and then, Oliver snaps, "What is it, Diggle?"

"Not killing the girl is one thing, but getting her groceries? Letting her walk around freely? Why take the risk?" Wow, what a judgmental butt. Her and Oliver had had _development_. He did threaten to tie her up but they decided to be way more civil about the whole deal. It was super adult.

Diggle's glances over at her, and she quickly closes her eyes, even though she knows it probably wasn't any use. This time he continues their discussion in the non-English manly sounding language. It sounds Slavic, maybe Polish or Bulgarian.

Oliver mutters another sentence or two before Diggle shoves the brown paper bag into his arms and he closes the door quietly. After a moment or two the couch dips down and she blinks a few times, stretching.

"I know you were listening," he just states, gaze fixated on the TV as he ignores her obvious fake attempt at 'waking up'. It feels so surreal. Even taking in account that he's going to snipe someone to death in her apartment, she never expected someone that good looking to be sitting on her couch

"You don't have an accent," she blurts out, lamely. It's a stupid thing to say, but she wants to know. "I mean, you guys sounded super European," no use to try and deny anything now, "but when you talk to me, I don't hear anything. Where did you study?"

"Russian," he corrects, fidgeting with that stupid flip phone with one hand, the other tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh. "I was born an American Citizen."

She wonders where he lives, what his life is like outside of his job. If she would have any chance of accidentally walking into him in the grocery store around the corner or spill coffee on and meet his wife in her favorite Jitters establishment a few blocks over. If she took advanced coding classes with his cousin, or goes to the same hairdresser as his mother to cover up her roots. The strange thing is, she feels some sort of compelling urge to find out more. To show herself he's not just—this.

She nods to herself, decides not to push it any further. He's probably already given her way more information than he should have. "Thank you. For the groceries. I know you didn't have to do that."

"Well," he flips the phone closed before shoving it into his pocket, and he has a funny look on his face, like he's proud of himself for trying to be normal and joke. "I'm your first captor. I shouldn't put the bar too low, right?"

She looks over at him, and she can't help but smile a little. She wants to say something, but as she catches his eyes she doesn't quite know what. He doesn't look away though, and after a moment she blushes, fixing her glasses as she breaks eye-contact, stammering something about making dinner, because, _what the hell was that?_

.

He mostly eats dinner in silence, something that probably feels natural to him.

For Felicity, it feels a lot like dying. She gets an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, foot tapping a nervous drum, teeth gritted together in between bits to keep from talking and/or screaming.

"Is he a bad guy at least?" She finally lets slip, a little bit too loudly, and feels like she can breathe again.

For all that it's worth, he looks like he's actually considering her question. He purses his lips for a second, then, shrugging he declares, "Probably."

"Probably?" She almost chokes on her fork, swallowing tightly. "You're about to kill somebody that you _assume_ is bad?" She huffs and puffs, looking at him like he's insane. "What if he is going to be our next president, or, oh—oh, he's like some kind of Dalai Lama figure, a literal Mother Teresa, or he has—he has the cure to cancer, or something?"

He snorts, half-assed, not even bothering to look at her. "I'm sure that the ambassador of world peace wouldn't get on the bad side of the Russian mob."

The Russian mob? If only she could Google right now. It does explain a lot. Most of all confirms her worst fear, that he really is the bad guy in this story.

"If you give me his name and access to internet for five minutes, maybe I could find out _why_ —" She tries, because—she can't just accept this. Or think of the fact that he just does.

"Absolutely not," he cuts her off, narrowing his eyes at her. She knows she's probably going too far, pushing him too hard, but she wants to—she needs to know.

"You just…" She runs a hand over her hair, shaking her head to herself as she trails off. "You trust them that much?"

"You wouldn't understand," he dismisses her, his jaw clenched tightly and eyes darker than usual.

"Try me."

He stabs at his food idly with his fork, before abruptly putting it down next to his plate. His voice is eerily calm and controlled as he speaks. "We're a Brotherhood. We'd die for each other. Which means that when they tell me to do something for the greater good of the Bratva, I do it. I don't ask questions, or get attached." For some reason, he decides to look at her during that part. Finalizing, and maybe a little weary, "I just do it."

She doesn't know what to reply. His intentions are, however questionable, not impure. But, for all intents and purposes, what he's doing, or going to do—she can't with good conscience support that. She doesn't have to, she remembers. She can pretend all she want, but their relationship will always be unequal.

It sucks to come to terms with their harsh reality, she realizes, sighing as she pushes her plate away from her. Figuring the subject is better off left alone, she offers, "Dessert?"

.

His radio keeps buzzing with low voices, and she's not sure if she's allowed to touch it, but he never said anything and he doesn't seem to be all that focused on it, considering it's just a room away and he still hasn't heard it. Also, she's trying to focus here. She's only rewatching Clueless for the thirty-fifth time. Which, coincidentally, might also be the reason he ducked out anyway.

He's using her spare bedroom to work out, because it's mostly empty—besides the occasional hamper with dirty clothes, the old pull-out sofa and some bookcases stacked to the walls—and the rest of her apartment is not really.

Being a tech geek requires collecting a lot of memorabilia.

She picks the radio up after a second of internal debate, and it's surprisingly heavy. Knocking on the door once, twice, before the force of her first just makes it fall open on it's own.

He stops his push-ups (arms!), and gets to his feet, panting a little. He takes a towel to wipe some beads of sweat from his forehead and neck (abs!) while she makes a fool of herself.

"Oh god. More," she motions her free hand at his chest, making a circle almost, "Naked skin."

He raises his eyebrows and she grimaces at herself, shoving the radio towards him. "Nevermind. I think your buddies are trying to reach you. Or some construction worker is trolling you in Russian. Either way," she shrugs, as he takes it from her finally, "It's yours."

"You're quite," he starts, eyes shining, then closes his mouth, thoughtful as he fumbles with the device. " _Remarkable_."

An embarrassed red flush creeps up her neck to her cheeks as she stammers, "Thank, thank you. For remarking on it."

He grins, just a little as he puts it to his mouth, muttering some unrecognizable phrases. She debates on whether she should just walk away or not but it feels a little awkward because she waited so long.

There's some feedback, and then he leans over to put it down on top of a comic book. A very rare comic book that she borrowed from Barry, promised to not take out of it's plastic cover even though she did and will end up in her swift death if it gets damaged somehow.

"No, wait, don't put it on th—" She trips over the doorstep, stumbling into him when he least expects it so they _both_ fall down. Nice.

"Wow, you're so— _sweaty_ ," she decides on, which exactly what every guy would like to hear when they're on top of you. But props to her, because that wasn't as embarrassing as it could've been.

"Not that, not that I don't like having you on top of me, sweaty or not, but. But that was a really weird thing to say, I'm so sorry—" Too soon. Her brain-to-mouth filter was still dysfunctioning.

He wipes some hair away from her forehead, looking vaguely fond, and she stops talking, freezing completely. He's so close, his face just inches away from hers, so close she can smell him; like wood for some reason, sweat and something indistinguishably _him_.

So close, she can feel his heart beating against hers.

His tongue dips out to wet his lips, fingers still lingering on the side of her face. She feels like this might be it, one of those moment that you know is going to end up with a kiss, and she braces herself, studying the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, the shape of his lips and his pretty blue eyes. How they're looking at her like… Like he feels it, too. What she feels about him, an unexplainable pull, some force of nature, _feelings_.

But nothing comes. He snaps out of it, blinking a few times before getting off her, apologizing as he helps her back up. Her fingers linger in his for a moment, but then he squeezes, dropping them.

She nods, turning on her heels to go back to her movie, heart drumming an erratic beat, even though she, for the love of all that is good in the world, can't imagine how she's supposed to focus on anything ever again after that just happened. _As if_.

.

The next morning she gets out of the shower with conflicted feelings. He usually showers at night, when he thinks she's asleep. Which, is—considerate. She feels another pang of— _conflict_.

She squeezes her hair above the drain to get rid of the excess water before wrapping herself in a towel. She doesn't know what to think, especially after last night. One minute he's looking at her funny and cryptic, like he's trying to figure something out, and another he's pretending like she isn't there.

She walks into her bedroom, ready to drop her towel and get dressed when he rushes in, not even bothering to knock. Her skin turns a shade of red, and he doesn't even look apologetic. She's about to yell at him when she notices the panicked state he's in. Panic. Something she thought he wasn't capable off.

"I have to go—my partner, he got made, and I—" he cuts himself off, putting his hands on her arms. He looks even more serious than usual. "Don't leave, okay? For your own safety."

"You're going?" She stammers, bewildered. Putting a hand to her forehead as his hands drop back beside his own body, her mind racing with a million questions. "You're leaving all of your, your illegal guns _here_? What am I supposed to do?"

"I'll be back," he nods, firm, and everything in him—his voice, his body language, the way he's looking at her—all tell her he means it, but she still feels this irrational feeling of worry gnaw at her. Like this might be the last time she sees him.

"Okay," she breathes, doubtful and he opens his mouth, taking a step closer, like he's going to say something, but instead reaches out to squeeze her hand before disappearing out of her apartment.

It's a long, long two hours before he returns, stumbling through her door, bruised and bleeding all over her expensive white carpet.

"You're bleeding," she exclaims as she helps him to the couch, not being able to tear her eyes away from his chest.

"I don't need to be told that," he hisses, groaning as she pushes him down in a sitting position, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Nice, so he even has an attitude when he's been stabbed.

"I'll, I'll be right back," she announces, swallowing hard at the indistinguishable metal smell of blood, disappearing into her bathroom.

Opening up her medicine cabinet, she pulls out anything that could be of use—painkillers, bandages, an old first-aid kid. Except for the tampons, she's been emotionally scarred enough for the day. She pulls out a few towels, too before hurrying back over to the living room.

"You stayed," he breathes as he shrugs out of his jacket and she sends him a confused, panicky look as she presses a towel against his abdomen, hard. They always apply pressure in the movies, right?

"Yeah, of course I stayed! You told me to!" Did he not warn death if she didn't?

"What happened?" She insists, pushing her glasses further up her nose with her upper arm, because of the lack of hands. Blood is smeared all over them, and her clothes. God. He's _really_ bleeding.

"Look," he starts, gritting his teeth together. "I'm going to pass out from, from the pain soon, o-okay?" He pauses, trying to collect himself, beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face. "The wound isn't too—too big. Just," he swallows tightly, putting his hand over hers and looking at her, almost desperate. "Keep applying pressure until it stops, and then, you have to, you have to cauterize it. Can you, can you do that?"

Cauterize it? She just stares at him, dumbfounded, trying to remember how she ended up here, or why she should even care to begin with. He is keeping her hostage. She isn't Doogie Howser. He might die anyway. Why does she care? Why _does_ she care? Why can't she just for once—

" _Felicity_." He hisses, but it lacks heat, but it helps to snap her out of it. She nods, once, slow before finding her voice. "Why did you come back? Why didn't you go to a hospital?"

"I had to see," he admits, but looks like he doesn't like it, brow furrowed together. He winces, sharply, before adding, "If you. I had to see if you were okay."

She swallows hard, covering his hand with hers instead, squeezing softly. For the first time in forever, she is speechless. His eyes are already drooping closed, and before she knows it, his hand slips away from hers and he's unresponsive.

She does what he says in a sort of post-traumatic out of body experience, like it's not actually her shaking hands she's watching which makes it easier, simpler to wrap her head around. She ends up retching over her toilet, because she did _not_ need to know what burned human flesh smelt like.

"What just happened," she mutters to herself as she starts scrubbing her hands clean with soap under cold tap water, everything immediately turning a light red color.

Suddenly, she hears sounds coming from her front door, like someone's rattling her door handle. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight, and she quickly turns off the tap, wiping her hands on the side of her dress.

 _My partner, he got made. I had to see if you were okay_. He might've been made, too. Somebody must've followed him. That somebody might be the person who stabbed Oliver. Like, either way, there's a ninety-nine percent chance she's going to end up dead, too.

She tiptoes over to the door, pressing her back against the wall beside it, feeling around for the baseball bat she hid behind her coat rack. Finally, as the rattling stops and the door clicks off it's lock, she wraps her fingers around it, holding it up.

If she's going to die, she's going to die kicking and screaming and probably hitting herself in the face with a baseball bat.

.

She wakes up with an aching feeling in her bones, her neck stiff and her wrist throbbing. Blinking a few times, she realizes she didn't die and her neck's just stiff because she fell asleep on the floor, leaning back against the couch.

She didn't die, because for the first time in her life, she knocked someone out with a baseball bat (almost spraining her wrist) and then proceeded to tie him to a kitchen chair, with tight knots she learned during that one girl scout summer camp her mother made her go to in seventh grade.

He looks younger than Oliver, a little smaller, too. He's well built, with broad shoulders, but there's a little more _softness_ to him. It's hard to imagine he managed to stab Oliver, though. The way he was working out—he didn't look so easy to beat. There's a nasty cut to his cheek, a dark bruise forming under his eye, probably because of Oliver, and a huge egg on the side of his head, courtesy of herself.

She scrambles unto her knees, turning towards Oliver as if suddenly remembering why she's in this situation in the first place. He looks like he's still breathing, but to be sure, she feels for his pulse by putting two fingers to his neck. His eyes flutter open, and unless he's a zombie, she figures he's alive.

Quickly retracting her hand, "Before you say anything, not once in my life has anyone demanded me to cauterize them before passing out, but I assure you it will be the last." She raises her eyebrows, even she is unimpressed by herself. "I know it doesn't sound all that threatening like that, but what I obviously mean is that next time I'll leave you to die. I don't like being told what to do, and besides! You could've _died._ "

He leans back on his elbows, carefully, the corner of his lips turned up just a little. "It probably didn't hit anything important."

"P-probably?" She stutters, completely dumbfounded, as she slaps her hand on her thigh in incredibility. "Probably? You were stabbed—in your chest. It broke skin and everything! You were bleeding, you might still be, like internally. Which, is honestly, I know, where the blood's supposed to be, but people die from it all the time—"

"God, can someone make her shut up already?" It's the boy, from earlier, who she knocked out with a baseball bat. She narrows her eyes, turning towards the direction of his voice.

Oliver sits up straight all of a sudden, wincing as he grabs for his lower ribs, right where he was stabbed. Then, taking in a sharp breath, brows furrowed together in confusion, "Roy?"

"Yeah, that's right," he spits, angrily pulling at the rope surrounding his wrists. "I came here to see if you didn't die in our little get together with the Italians earlier and your girlfriend decides to give me a fucking concussion."

"Italians," she wonders at the same time as Oliver says, like he could never imagine it, or is looking around for someone who isn't there, "Girlfriend?"

'Roy' rolls his eyes, nodding towards Felicity, who just huffs, crossing her arms over her body. "You were trying to break into my apartment, I had every right to defend myself."

"You knocked him out?"

"Is that judgment I'm hearing?" She snaps, sending daggers at him over the rim of her glasses. She's so not here for this. Yeah, she _did_ that. Because she had to—like he hasn't done worse.

"No, no, I'm impressed," he grins, for the first time ever and even Roy seems taken back, and he isn't even on pain meds yet. She quickly looks away, simply because it does weird things to her stomach and she refuses to feel that way about a guy she met less than half a week ago and whose profession literally including offing other people.

Finally, she decides to get up, brushing off her dress and straightening her shoulders. "I'm going to untie you now, okay?"

He moves his arm to his lap then, shaking them out a little, "Don't bother, princess." He starts untying the rope around his ankles, "You're lucky I have a concussion and couldn't get out sooner or I would've killed you while you slept."

She sends him a nasty look and Oliver just sends him a glare, before carefully trying to swing his legs over the edge of the couch. Felicity hands him the bottle of pain meds, but he shakes his head.

"I'm fine," he insists, getting up and she puts up her hands in defense. His ego will be the death of him.

"Yeah, you look peachy," she remarks, sarcastically, noting the bags under his eyes and the fact he's still covered in blood all over. A smaller cut on his neck, just over his adam's apple, like someone held a knife to his throat. Another one above his eye, one that she at least cleaned and tried to bandage with a small white strip.

"I need to keep a clear head," he retorts absentmindedly, padding towards her window and moving aside the curtain to look at something outside.

He's still going through with it, even though he almost died. She makes an exasperated spluttering sound, shaking her head to herself. She hadn't wanted to leave Oliver alone with a man that might murder him before, but now that it turns out they're BFFs, she figures he can handle himself. Picking up the baseball bat, she excuses herself with a mock-bow and heads towards the bathroom.

She slams the door behind her, but it doesn't close completely, and she's able to make out some of their conversation. It's in Russian, so it doesn't really make any sense, but still.

Her muscles ache, she realizes as she leans on the wall beside the door. Roy was heavier than she thought. She closes her eyes, lets the cold tile cool off her head a little. It's surprisingly soothing to listen to their murmering voices.

"...in English? I can only ever understand half the shit you're saying normally, and at the moment I have a raging headache." Her eyes shoot open, silently thanking Roy for being the MVP of the conversation.

"Apparently you don't. I told you to stay on your post."

"Yeah, and if I had listened—you'd be dead."

Oliver lets out a deep, angry breath. "That's not the point, Harper. You're supposed to do whatever your Captain tells you to do."

Captain? Jesus Christ. He's not just a member of the Bratva, he's one of their leaders.

"Right," he sounds more annoyed than anything and there's silence.

"How's John?" Oliver sounds resigned at most.

"Diggle? You know him. Ill weeds grow apace." It sounds like a nasty thing to say, but his voice is softer, joking almost.

Certain she's not going to hear anything of importance and tired of being sticky with blood, she turns on the shower, unzipping the back of her dress like a single-living badass unzipping pro before stepping out of it.

"...doing? Playing house with her like…"

She perks up, heart beating loudly in her chest. She can't make out everything, just words here and there. It'd be super suspicious if she turned off the shower now, but it's really not doing any wonders for her hearing right now.

"It's not like that," he barks, low. "I'm here to finish a job and...don't care..." Silence. Then his voice, clearer than anything else. "Felicity, she is nothing more than a distraction."

Her palms suddenly feel sweaty and she takes off her underwear quickly before stepping under the lukewarm stream of water, squeezing her eyes shut to keep from crying. She doesn't know why she cares, why she's so emotional over this all of a sudden, over a single word, coming from somebody she hardly knows.

 _I had to see if you were okay._

She scrubs at her skin until it's red, and clean, clean of blood, and sweat, and him.

.

The next morning, Roy's gone, and she knows this is the day. Their last day together, too, ironically. After her shower last night, she just crawled into bed immediately, not really giving a flying frack about her manners or what they would think of her.

There's just an awkward, groggy exchange of good mornings, and then she just takes her breakfast into her room. He sends her a wary, confused look, like he wants to ask her something, but she stares at him expectantly for a minute and he obviously decides against it, turning back towards the window.

She slams the door closed behind her, and eats her cereal with tears burning the back of her eyes. The worst part is, Diggle didn't even bring the good kind of cereal, with so much sugar it makes your tongue numb.

She spends most of the morning reading old comic books her friend Barry borrowed her, before getting dressed because she's decidedly not going to sulk over this. She is a strong, independent woman who doesn't need guys not to call her a distraction. They can call her anything they want. She don't care.

"Did you know Bertinelli has a daughter?" She snaps, suddenly overwhelmed with anger at the sight of him, eye pressed to the scope of his rifle, finger on the trigger. She knows he's just checking it's position, like he's done a million times before, but something inside of her just snaps.

"What?" His head jerks up to look at her, and he's obviously not surprised to hear the information, more that it's coming from her.

"Her name is Helena, she's my age." She crosses her arms over her chest, and it feels good. To throw it all back in his face. "Not too young to lose her father, but still. Not _too_ old for it not to have a heavy impact on her emotional devel—"

"I know," he barks, and doesn't even have the decency to not look so righteous. "I know he does. Like I know that he killed her fiancée. And her mother, her uncle, her dog when she was seven and _countless_ of other innocent bystanders."

That, admittedly, had not been on his public record. Still. It seems a little like they're playing judge, jury and executioner.

She sets her jaw, but she's more angry with herself than anything. "And what? Nobody cared until he started doing it on your turf?"

"It's not that black and white," he spits, shaking his head a little. Maybe he hadn't been as obvlious as she'd thought. "The police can't touch him, and as long as nobody can get to him, he will just continue hurting people."

"He donates money to Unicef," she whispers softly, argumentally, but it feels stupid. She thought it would be easier, that she was right, that she could talk to him and he wouldn't have a choice but to admit so. She's not saying he _is_ right, or his ways are, but he's not completely wrong either.

"Why are you doing this?" He questions, tired as he runs a hand over his face. "How do you even know all of this?"

"You told me not to leave, and I didn't. But you also left me alone with a laptop and a girl only has that much self-control." She had to pass the time somehow, and she'd wanted to know. What was so important for him to be so panicked, so ready to give his life for.

"You think this is my first hit?" His voice is harsh, but he continues in a softer one, more controlled, "You think I'm broken and you can fix me?"

"N-no," she claims, and her breathing speeds up, running a hand through her hair, that for the first time in a while isn't in a ponytail. "I just—I didn't just want to stand idly by while you, you—I didn't want to believe that this was just who you were. That you would just murder someone in cold blood because someone told you to. That you didn't even care."

"I'm not fixable, Felicity. There's nothing wrong with me. This is who I am, who I've had to become." If he keeps saying her name like that she might die, and she feels awful all of a sudden. For confronting him like this, while she doesn't know anything, doesn't even know half of it. His blue eyes meet hers and they're cold, distant. "Frank Bertinelli isn't a good man, and even if you think that we don't care, we usually only kill the bad ones. It's what we do."

She can't take the way he's looking at her, can't take the way he's talking to her, the way he must think of her. She shakes her head to herself, poking out her tongue to wet her bottom lip.

"Just say it already," she demands finally. "Say that I'm an inconvenience, or a-a distraction, that you wish you'd _never_ met me—"

"Felicity. Don't," he hisses, without much heat, and her head snaps up to look at him. He's suddenly closer than he was before and her stomach clenches at the sight of him.

"You weren't supposed to hear that," he elaborates, apologetically, his fingertips reaching out to graze the side of her arm, just barely making contact. "I just think that because of the work that I do, it's better for me not to get involved with someone I could really care about."

"Just because I wasn't supposed to hear it," she notices he's looking at her mouth, instead of her eyes, "doesn't mean it isn't true." It's really distracting that he's just, not making eye-contact. It makes her feel a little uneasy, a nervous swirl in her stomach. "And it certainly doesn't mean that—"

Suddenly, his mouth is on hers, and something clicks in her head. That's why he was looking at her lips. It's so long and lingering, it makes her shiver a little. Her hand find the small hairs on the back of his neck, where the skin was soft and unscarred, the other wrapped in the fabric on the side of his shirt.

He lifts her up a little, mouth still moving against hers frantically, and she wraps her legs around his waist, for once thankful she decided to wear jeans today instead of a tight skirt.

"Bed," she breathes in between kisses, his fingers creating infuriating shapes on the small of her back and up her spine. "P-please."

He walks them toward her bedroom, pressing kisses down her neck and collarbone, their hearts slamming together through the thin layers of fabric separating them, and oh, God, she wants him.

He lays her down on the bed, re-connecting their mouths as soon as he crawls back on top of her, his elbows supporting most of his weight as not to crush her.

She reaches for the hem of his shirt, but he was already there, pulling it over his head. Only wincing a little when he stretched his right arm above his head, the side he was hurt.

He sits back on his heels, pulling her up with him until she's on her knees, too as she draws his mouth back to hers. He kisses her, harder and harder, like it would never be enough. She lifts her shirt over her own head at one point, only bothered by the fact she put on her old regular skin-colored cotton bra until she notices the look on his face. He didn't care about the bra, he just—saw her.

His hands land on her waist as she tries to open his jeans in between them, hands smoother than usual, only stopping to hold his head as he kisses down her throat and collarbone, and—oh!

He unhooks her bra, and she must tense, because he's looking up at her for permission to which she just pulls it down her arms, throwing it on the floor casually. His puts his hands on her shoulders, before his fingers trail down, setting every part of her body on fire on his way down to his hips. Then, he reaches up to take of her glasses, just slow enough that it's kind of hot.

He leans over and puts them down on her nightstand before his mouth is back on hers in no time, pulling her down until she's laying under him again, their bare skin sliding together, making her aware that she had never felt this connected to someone before, not after this little time.

She wanted—had to keep touching and kissing him, feel him everywhere possible. Make sure he's real, he's here. With her.

He pulls away, finally, breathing heavy as he cups her face. "You've been the first person I could see as a person in a long time." Even softer, eyes painstakingly blue on hers, "Who looked at me, like I was one, too."

She doesn't know what that means, exactly, just that he's been through a lot and it's hard for him to admit. The only thing she does know is that she wants to find out, and that from the sound of his voice, he might let her.

She grins, small and intimate, pressing her hand on his tattoo, right over his heart. "You know, I've already seen you shirtless multiple times, because. Shirtless. All the time." She grimaces. "One of which you were bleeding of course, but—well. It really doesn't get less amazing with time."

He laughs, almost surprised, and she loves the sound of it, the easiness in his eyes, no worry-lines on his face, before pressing his mouth back against hers.

.

His radio goes off at one point, which signals they have to get out of bed, and the dread settles back into her like an old familiar sweater you hadn't worn in years. She follows him into the living room after a moment, having slipped into her lila kimono first.

He's conversing over the radio in Russian, there's frantic yelling back and forth as he presses his eye to the scope, obviously searching for something, or someone, outside.

Then, a third voice intervenes, one she recognizes. "He was never here, goddamnit, it was a decoy." It's Roy.

Oliver hisses something in Russian, shoulders tense as he pulls his face back from his rifle. He glances over at Felicity for a second, before redirecting it at his radio expectantly.

There's some noise, then. "How am I sure?" A snort. "Because I'm standing in his hotel room holding a rubber mask with the son of a bitch's worthless ugly face on it, that's why."

There's some more discussion before Oliver shuts it down, throwing it away from him, obviously frustrated. It looks a little funny, him just in his boxers, standing in front of a riffle, upset.

"He escaped," Oliver grunts, gritting his teeth together in anger as he runs a hand over his head.

"Yeah, I got that far," she notes, sarcastically. All she wants to do is make him feel better. Then, softer, almost nervously, "If you'd just let me, I could hack into the building find out who was covering for Bertinelli, maybe put him on the no-fly list, send Interpol after his ass, I could—"

"No," he barks, all of a sudden, turning around and she winces. He closes his eyes, running a hand over his face and she knows he doesn't mean to, want to startle her like this. "Sorry. It's just—"

He steps closer to her, looking like he wants to reach out, but decides not to. "It's not—it's too dangerous, okay? I don't want you to get hurt."

She nods, taking a step closer to him to meet him in the middle and he puts his arm around her shoulder, rubbing her arm comfortingly as he looks out the window again, like it might change something.

"You're not just… going to stop, right?" She questions, defeated, leaning into his embrace, and he shakes his head, as if to say, _if only it were that easy_.

"No," he offers, genuinely. Then, he wets his lips, sighing quietly as he kisses her forehead, so soft, she almost feels like she imagined it. "But, I'm willing to work on it."

.

 _but baby, i just need one good one, good one_

 _tell me that you'll be the good one, good one_

.


End file.
